Reasons Why Matthew Williams Hates His Family
by sarsaparillia
Summary: It's a sad thing, that you can't pick the people you're related to. Province-centric.
1. ontario sucks

**disclaimer**: disclaimed. except for the provinces. my provinces. mine.  
><strong>dedication<strong>: to eleni and emily, for dreaming this up with me, albeit at different times.  
><strong>notes<strong>: AHAHAHAHAHAA ELECTION TIME BITCHES  
><strong>notes2<strong>: yes, i am a university student. yes, i attend these kind of things and then write about them. yes, i'm very special (not really).

**title**: ontario sucks  
><strong>summary<strong>: Or _Reasons Why Matthew Hates His Family_. — Because Alberta is a prissy little bitch, and half the time, everyone else just wants to strangle her. Pre-election.

—

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"What do you mean, I _can't_?"

A pair of bright green eyes flashed, and Alberta stood up, arms already crossed over her chest. She glared down at the boy across the table, stubborn chin jutted out, absently brushing long black hair out of her face.

The dining room in Ottawa was very, very quiet. The provinces and territories sat around the table, determinedly ignoring each other's gaze. Matthew, at the head of the table, pressed his fingers to his temples.

Why did this have to happen _every single time_ they had a family reunion?

"I _dare_ you to repeat that, Quebec. I _dare_ you," hissed Alberta, lips pulled back over her teeth in a snarl.

"You 'eard me, _chéri_," Quebec said, smirking darkly up at the fuming girl. "You know what I said."

"You have _no right_ to tell me what I can and cannot do _with my own land_," she snarled at him. "You may be older than me, but you do _not_ have the right to _boss me around_."

Quebec tilted his chair back on his back to legs and tucked his hands behind his hand. He smiled at the ceiling. "Ahhh, _chéri,_ _ne vous fâchez pas. En fait, faire. Vous êtes drôle quand vous êtes en colère._"

Ontario snorted into his goulash.

Alberta turned, fists on the table, and snarled him into silence.

Matthew wondered if everyone's families were like this. "_Québec, arrêt._ Alberta, you too. Can we not have _one_ supper where the two of you _get along_?"

"But, Daddy—"

"_Mais, papa_—"

"Alli, we'll talk about the oil-sands after supper. Jacques… you are far too much like Francis. Leave Alli alone."

"Daddy—"

"Alli, sit _down_."

Alberta sat with a huff, hair caught in her mouth, and glared mulishly around at them all. Her family—well, most the time, she didn't want to call them family and was often ashamed she was related to them, the bunch of Liberal morons—didn't often have the chance to get together like this; it was one of the drawbacks of living in a country so large.

BC was on her left, wild brown dreadlocks hair tied back with a bandana, pupils wide and dilated in his sun-bronze face. He was staring at the ceiling, blunt-nailed fingers tangled through her own manicured hands unconsciously, and had Alli been the type to blush, she would have. Yukon was further left of BC, dark shadows under darker eyes, gaunt and hungry-looking, fireweed tangled in his hair. The space next to him was empty, and Alberta couldn't help but wincing at the thought of Alaska—because it still was too raw, still hurt too much.

_Then again, what didn't hurt?_ Alberta thought wryly. _Everything hurts_.

Prince Edward Island sat at the foot of the table; there'd been a fight over that spot, once, and Matthew had ruled that, as the only province to not ask for the spot, he would have it (as such, no one had ever forgiven either of them for it). Across the table, North of Sixty and Nunavut were whispering quietly to each other; twins in every sense, from temperament to looks.

Alberta smiled. She got along well with the territories, for the most part.

Nova Scotia brushed red-gold hair out of sky-blue eyes and grinned like a pixie, mouth stretched wide; she was tucked under Newfoundland's arm (Labrador looked annoyed; Labrador always looked annoyed). New Brunswick eyes glittered wickedly, loyal to the bone.

Saskatchewan jammed an elbow in Alberta's ribs, and brought her out of her slightly ridiculous musing about her family.

"Ow—what?"

"Pay attention, stupid," she hissed, and nodded her sleek wheat-blonde head in their father's direction.

Matthew sighed and rubbed his temples.

"There's going to be another election."

A strange hush fell over the table, and all the provinces looked towards their father. It might have been Alberta's imagination, but she thought he looked drawn, tired. The lines around his mouth looked deeper, his forehead a little more wrinkled.

"Another one? But that's—" Saskatchewan murmured, looking unnerved.

"Four in seven years, yes," Matthew completed her sentence with a sigh, rubbing his temples for the third time that night, trying to force away the headache that was setting in. He _really_ didn't want to deal with another election.

Jacques laughed aloud, and the whole table winced.

The last time Jacques had laughed like that, Parliament had nearly burned. Four decades, and not one of them had yet to forget the October Crisis. Alli still had nightmares about it, sometimes. Her father ripped in two and Jacques laughing and laughing, a megalomaniac watching as the whole world went up in flame.

"_Mon Dieu, ce sera le chaos_," he chuckled. He looked Alli straight in the face, and asked "_Est cela que vous avez voulu, mon amour_?"

She clenched her fists. "You know I _never_ wanted this. _Never_."

None of the provinces could ever say they wanted this. Matthew would be in turmoil for weeks, as the politicians raged and railed against one another, and the people just didn't care.

It was the apathy that was going to kill them all, Alli thought, and shivered.

"When?"

"May. Early May."

"Daddy, are you going to be okay?" Saskatchewan asked softly, worry creasing her forehead. She'd spoken the question that they all had been thinking.

Matthew smiled tiredly. "Of course."

Of course he would be okay. Of course.

Alberta slipped her fingers from BC's, and left the table.

/ / /

"_Chéri, sont vous bien_?"

Alberta stood outside of the parliament building, shivering. Ottawa was warmer than she was used to, this time of year, but the air was damp with humidity and it was _cold_.

"I'm fine. Go away, Jacques."

He came and stood next to her, leaning on the rail. The wind was off the Rideau Canal and up around them both, carrying the scent of factory production and water. Alberta ran her fingers through her hair.

She didn't look at him when she spoke. "We're so fucked up. This family—we're so fucked up."

Jacques glanced at her through a curtain of blonde hair. She was staring at the Canal, eyes hard, and he wondered what was going through her mind. Alberta had always been a bit of an enigma; she got along well enough with B.C. and—Jacques couldn't help wrinkling his nose at the thought of that _Yankee_—she certainly got along famously with Alfred. It had always been a point of contention.

So he nodded. "Yes."

Alberta was shaking her head, hand at the back of her head, a sick little smile twisting her lips. "I mean, look at us—you tried seceding because you're a pompous ass, and I—I pretty much hate the entire Eastern half of this place. God, I can't even stand Toronto, you have no idea. I just want to go home."

He didn't say that the family meeting still had six more days, because that wasn't what she needed to hear.

He didn't even really know what she needed to hear.

Maybe that it would be okay.

But Jacques wasn't good at comfort—he was good at rebellion and destruction, as good as she was, really, but little else. Neither was any good at comfort.

Alberta could only shake her head, lips pressed together, and she shivered. "It's the apathy, Jacques. No one cares. Democracy doesn't work if no one cares."

He didn't remind her of the vote mobs that seem to have been springing up at the universities across the country. He didn't remind her of the drums, echoing up through the cities, bouncing off the glass walls of the sky scrapers, didn't speak of the chanting. He didn't say anything about Stroumboulopoulos and the video about the apathy.

Because she knew all those things.

But it was still the apathy, sometimes, Jacques thought that Alli needed someone to ground her.

Someone who was not B.C.

He slipped his jacket off, and tossed it at her. She shrieked as it landed on her head, and Jacques laughed to himself as she fought with the cloying fabric.

"What was _that_ for?" she hissed when she finally managed to get it off. She held the leather away from her body like it was something infected, and Jacques couldn't help but chuckle again.

Alberta was so predictable.

"You look cold."

She stared at him, green eyes slit and suspicious. Jacques spread his hands, grinning wide and innocent, and watched as she slid the coat over her shoulders.

"Stop grinning like that, it makes you look disgustingly happy," she told him, grumpy.

Jacques shook his head, and slipped his arm around her shoulders.

"I hate you," she grumbled, ducking her head down and into the side of his neck.

"I know."

But it felt like family, and things were almost okay.

—

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_fin_.  
><strong>notes3<strong>: yes, i shamelessly ship Quebec/Alberta.

Translations:  
>—<em>chéri,<em> _ne vous fâche__z pas. En fait, faire. Vous êtes drôle quand vous êtes en colère._  
>Darling, don't be angry. Actually, do. You're funny when you're angry.<br>_—Arrêt_  
>Stop<br>—_Mon Dieu, ce sera le chaos. Est cela que vous avez voulu, mon amour?_  
>My god, it will be chaos. Is this what you wanted, love?<br>—_ Chéri, sont vous bien_?  
>Darling, are you okay?<p> 


	2. pseudo international politics

**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
><strong>dedication<strong>: to tumblr, for being an endless source of happiness & love.  
><strong>notes<strong>: Alberta is kind of a diva—well, she's the Princess Province for a _reason_. & i write from her perspective because it's the province in which i live & therefore know the best. …& because she's a diva. it's fun.

**title**: (adventures in) pseudo-international politics  
><strong>summary<strong>: In which Texas hits on Alberta, and neither BC nor Quebec is at all amused.

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No one was really sure why Matthew Williams allowed Alfred F. Jones within five hundred kilometres of the border between Canadian territory and American land. It would always be a mystery to most, but to the provinces, it was the longest unsolved whodunit _ever_.

Alberta was ensconced in Matthew's room in Ottawa, curled on the bed between BC and Saskatchewan. The provinces had gone on strike and usurped the room in protest of the forthcoming visit, intent on refusing to leave until the Yank was gone, gone, _gone_.

Alberta found this highly offensive and had spent a good portion of the first half hour attempting a daring-if-slightly-stupid escape routine.

None of the other provinces were very impressed, but that was nothing new.

(Alberta was a diva by default, and mostly, everyone just ignored her when she started whining.)

"How long are we staying in here?" Alberta demanded, green eyes flashing in annoyance.

Saskatchewan was perfectly calm, and studied her nails with calm eyes. "We will remain here until Father decides to kick that man to the curb."

"I dunno why you guys dislike him so much, he's nice—!"

The snort that cut Alberta's rant off was inelegant and derisive. "'Ou are you kidding, _chéri_?"

Alberta had to restrain herself from causing Quebec severe physical harm. He was sprawled in the window seat, grace wasted in his face, sneering at her. Alli had never wanted to punch someone so much in her life. She would have pushed herself off the bed and flown at him had BC not sighed. He wrapped his arms around her and tugged her back against his chest.

"Shut up, Alli," he advised, breathing against her ear to calm her down.

Alberta huffed, glared, but didn't move.

The smirk that marred Quebec's face would have infuriated even the most level-headed among them, and the squabble that would likely have broken out was interrupted by the knock on the oak door. The thirteen of them—ten provinces, three territories—all jerked to attention, sitting up and watching the door warily.

"I'm coming in," came Matthew's voice, muffled through wood.

Before any one of them could move, he swept in, looking unruffled and unrepentant. There was something dark in his eyes, and the provinces and territories all resolutely avoided his gaze.

There were very few things that angered Matthew Williams.

Rudeness, however, was one of them.

"I am very, very disappointed in all of you," he said, frowning. "I expect better of you. I expect _politeness_. Do I ask for very much?"

Their father never had to yell to get his point across. Matthew rarely raised his voice; the quiet disappointment was enough to make them all wince. Alberta glanced around the room, and saw that all of them—_every last one of them_—were wincing, apparently shamed.

She wondered if it would be enough to get them to let her out.

"Now," Matthew said. "I'm going back downstairs to greet our guests."

And with that, he turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him. It clicked shut behind him, and it was Manitoba who spoke, one eye closed. "I _hate_ it when he does that guilt trip shit, man."

Ontario, Manitoba's near twin only taller, reached over and ruffled the younger man's auburn-brown hair. "Idiot, that's what Dad _does_."

Nova Scotia (sometimes they called her Evangeline) was the one to tilt her head, red-gold bangs falling into her eyes in wisps of movement, and she shook them away. "So who else is feelin' like they're worse'n dirt?"

Jacques stood, eyes blue and blazing and so very French, _la révolution_ still coursing in his blood despite four hundred years and two generations between them. Alberta wasn't surprised when it was fast and furious French that fell from his lips.

"_Vous imbéciles! Comment pouvez-vous permettre ce __**Yank**__ ici? Comment pouvez-vous dire que vous aimez ce pays? Je ne peux pas respecter cette! Je __**ne vais pas**__ respecter cette! __Fous!_" he snarled, expletives dripping from his lips.

Alberta yawned. "Shut up, Jacques," she said, and clawed her way off the bed. She stood in the center of the room with her hands on her hips, and glared around at them all.

"Are you coming, then?" she demanded. "Or am I going to be the only good child, _like always_?"

The snort that went around the room was both immediate and from every single other occupant. Alberta huffed, but stood her ground—she'd learned that the only way she'd ever get her way was to do exactly as she liked, and to guilt the rest of them into following. Her daddy had already done a fair job; they just needed that last little _push_.

And so Alberta stood at the door and glared around at them, until one by one, they all stood and filed out. The territories were last to leave and Yukon's gaze was annoyed, but Anana and Miki smiled a little at her.

That was good. The Northwest Territories and Nunavut made up such a large part of Alli's life that she wasn't sure if she could really live without them.

Alberta slipped between them, and danced down the stairs.

She always got what she wanted.

/ / /

Matthew looked neither surprised nor pleased when the entirety of his household came trudging down the stairs. He smiled at them and nodded towards their seats, and perhaps only looked a wee bit smug.

(Alberta thought she saw England smirking in her father's face. It only freaked her out a little bit.)

Alfred F. Jones was sitting at the head of the table, snivelling. "I can't believe they didn't invite me to the wedding! _Why_ wasn't I invited to the wedding, Mattie? _You_ were invited and half the time, Arthur forgets you exist!"

Alberta watched her father roll his eyes heavenward as his voice took on the deceptively innocent tone he always used when it came to Alfred. He was patting the other man gently on the back, determined to lighten Alfred's dark, unhappy spirits.

"Alfred, you know what the Queen Mum thinks of you. I'm sure Arthur had no say in it anyway."

(And everyone thought her daddy was so spineless. They knew _nothing_. Alberta caught Nova Scotia's eye, and both girls had to stuff their fists into their mouths to stop the giggles.)

"But _you_ were invited!" Alfred insisted with a wail worthy of a Hollywood movie star.

"And you know that I didn't manage to get there, either. There's an election in _two days_ here, remember?"

"Oh." Alfred stopped blubbering abruptly. He crowed "Then we can be mad at Artie _together_!"

"But I'm not—" Matt sighed, already caught up Alfred's enthusiasm.

"Daddy, are we going to eat, now?" Alberta asked, tired of the display of overt affection. She did like Alfred, but watching her father get felt up was not something Alberta had ever wanted to see.

Alfred whipped around, blue eyes widening. He boomed "Alli! How are ya, kid?"

He bounded over, swept her up in a hug (Alberta caught sight of her father, caught between horrified that his daughter was being manhandled and relieved that he was no longer being molested), and squeezed her until she let out a squeak in protest. "I—can't breath, Uncle!"

It took a minute or eight, but Alfred did eventually put her down. Most of Alberta's siblings were staring at the tall blonde man stonily. He squinted at them all for a minute, and then appeared to give up trying to remember their names.

(Not one of them was surprised.)

"Pa, what's—?" came a voice from outside.

Alberta stiffened, and watched her siblings do the same—Jacques' hackles were already up, ready for a fight, because that deep Southern twang was something both known and hated.

The door slammed open, and it was leather cowboy boots and a white Stetson that walked through the door, blonde hair curling out from underneath and sky-blue eyes that might have looked happy had they not been shadowy and smirking.

Alberta pushed her hair over her shoulder, cocked her hip, and sauntered past him. She murmured "Look who decided to come back."

He nearly snagged her around the waist, close enough to start a war and it felt like disgust or something close to it. But Alli could hear BC grinding his teeth and Jacques looked like he was going to break a mirror over the boy's head.

It was so perfect, she could have framed it.

And Alberta had always been a tease.

"Paws off, Texas," she told him, and stepped out of his reach. She grabbed Saskatchewan by the hand, and together the two girls left the room, Nova Scotia and Newfoundland guffawing in the background.

The supper table was set for twenty; Alberta counted up the table in two-four-six-ten-fourteen-twenty and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Fancy. We even have _seating_ _tags_. Ten bucks says Daddy put me right in the middle."

Saskatchewan sighed like a dry breath of wind over the prairies. "You're always in the middle. Shut up and sit down, Alli."

"You're so pleasant, sister mine," Alberta quipped, nose in the air.

"Mmm," Saskatchewan hummed, indifferent.

(Sometimes Alberta thought the lack of time change made Saskatchewan complacent. Sometimes she thought a lot of things about her siblings. Sometimes.)

Alberta sat in the center and waited for the rest of her family to sit down. Mixed among them came some of the states, chatting with her family and looking far less awkward than they'd been on previous visits. From across the table, Colorado (what was his name, again?) winked at her and Alberta smiled because sometimes smiling was easier than admitting she was ever wrong.

(She was never wrong.)

The clink of cutlery and china and the chatter roared around her. Alberta immersed herself in it like sinking into cotton candy from the Stampede, dug her teeth into the whole thing like deep-fried Oreos and took it all in stride. Like life and Chinese lanterns up on strings in Edmonton's Chinatown, she breathed, loved and laughed; shared dreams like bus change and burning houses.

And eventually, they all calmed; until the talk was nothing more than the sound of wind through wheat under open sky. It was a sound Alberta knew all too well.

She quietly excused herself from the table.

/ / /

"Would you _leave me alone, already_?"

And Alberta had thought that _Jacques_ was bad.

Maxwell Jones was a _hundred_ times worse than Jacques ever managed to be. That stupid hat (it was incredibly douchey to wear outside of actual riding or Klondike or Stampede) and those stupid boots (also incredibly douchey—hello, cowboy boots were meant for _actual cowboys_) and _ugh, just ugh_.

How she'd ever found him attractive, Alberta would never know.

(A shiver of memory trailed over her skin—black gold, sky-scrapers in Calgary, banks, _cha-ching_, the acrid scent of gasoline and _that smile_—!)

He'd followed her when she'd left the dining hall, still with that infernal smirk across his lips and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Don't ya love me anymore?" he asked, laughter in his eyes.

Alberta looked at him for a long minute. "Max, have you ever heard the expression 'It's too much car for you'?"

He raised an eyebrow.

Alberta waggled her fingers, and headed upstairs. Over her shoulder, she threw him a glance and an almost-smile.

"You're already in my rear-view mirror. _Ta_!"

—

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**notes2**: _this is so canon, yo_.  
><strong>notes3<strong>: & has become an anthology. i guess i'll update it as more weird political shit happens.**  
>notes4<strong>: please leave a review if you liked it, because reviews are beautiful and fantastic and make me write! :)

Translations:  
>—<em>chéri<em>  
>darling<br>— _la révolution_  
>the revolution<br>—_Vous imbéciles! Comment pouvez-vous permettre ce **Yank** ici? Comment pouvez-vous dire que vous aimez ce pays? Je ne peux pas respecter cette! __Je **ne vais pas** respecter cette! Fous!_  
>You imbeciles! How can you allow that Yank here? How can you say you love this country? I cannot respect this! I will not respect this! Fools!<p> 


End file.
